


seventh planet from the sun

by dorenamryn



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, blink and you'll miss it sylvain/ingrid, vague gamer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorenamryn/pseuds/dorenamryn
Summary: “Do you hate me?” Dimitri asks, blue eye haunted, and the suddenness of the question stuns Felix into silence.“I don’t,” he says, at last. “I never did.”or: Felix goes to get groceries and leaves with Dimitri’s number, a plethora of unanswered questions, and an age-old desire to punch himself in the face.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 18
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

All Felix wanted was to go to the grocery store, get his milk, and go home. 

That’s it. Nothing else. After all, it wasn’t like it was _his_ fault that Sylvain, in a drunken stupor, no less, cut the hole in their last milk bag a little too wide, and then dropped it right onto the shiny tiles that Felix had cleaned not a day before. No, it wasn’t his fault at all, but Ingrid had sent him to buy more milk regardless, armed with a ten dollar bill she filched from Sylvain’s wallet while he lay passed out on the couch. 

And thus, here he was, debating on whether to buy two percent milk or fat-free just to spite his intolerable roommates. 

Dressed in sweats and an old sweatshirt, hair tucked into a lazy bun, Felix reasons that it’s half past one in the morning and it’s fine to look like a sleep-deprived mess if no one else is around to see. Considering the time, no sane person would be at the grocery store besides him. Or, rather, no sane person _should_ be at the grocery store besides him. It’s just credit to his rotten luck that someone rounds the corner into the dairy aisle, footsteps heavy. 

_Who wears dress shoes at this hour?_ He thinks absently, putting the bag of two percent milk in his basket. Letting the door to the freezer fall shut, he makes in the opposite direction of the newcomer, but—

“Felix?”

Felix stops in his tracks. Reevaluates the life choices leading him to this moment. And then, slowly, ever so slowly, turns around. “Boar?”

Dimitri holds a box of chocolate and almond-covered ice cream bars, a package of gum, and nothing else. He’s taller than Felix remembers, shoulders broader than they were in their adolescent years. His blonde hair, once vibrant and glowing, is duller, now, longer and pulled into a choppy ponytail at the back of his head. He is, in fact, wearing dress shoes. Oxfords, black and polished, shiny under the fluorescent lights of the store. An eye patch covers his right eye.

Felix’s heartbeat stutters, then evens out. He has to remind himself to breathe. Eyes fixating on the gum, Felix squints. “Spearmint? Really?”

It’s easy, to focus on the small things. Hurts less than having to say Dimitri’s name, or to speak of the years stretching between the present moment and their last meeting. Dimitri blinks, opening and closing his mouth like a confused fish.

“I can’t taste it,” Dimitri finally intones, his face thankfully losing some of the tension.

“I know,” Felix affirms in reply, stilted and uncomfortable, because he _does_ know. Knows this, along with the fact that Dimitri doesn’t put sugar in his coffee and colour-codes his wardrobe. The characteristics of one’s best friend since birth are a hard thing to forget. 

“What are you doing here?” Dimitri asks. It’s tortuous and painfully awkward, but Felix forces his jaw to unclench.

“Buying milk, obviously,” he says, and it comes out harsher than intended. A flash of hurt passes across Dimitri’s face, and Felix sighs in frustration at his own mistake. “Look, I meant—I didn’t mean it that way. I just wasn’t—Expecting _this_.”

Dimitri nods, cautiously stepping closer. “I understand. How long has it been? Six years? Seven?”

“Five,” Felix corrects, knuckles white around the handles of his basket.

“Ah,” Dimitri hums, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. He has the gall to look sheepish, of all things. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track of time, as of late.”

“Go figure,” Felix snorts. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, loud and distracting. There’s so much he wants to ask— _where have you been? Did you get discharged?_ —but the words are stuck somewhere between his head and his mouth, lips unhelpfully unresponsive. He settles for small talk, trying desperately not to cringe as he asks, “How’ve you been?”

“Alright, I suppose,” Dimitri tells him. Then, smiling again, “I am glad to have run into you, Felix. It’s been a long time.”

Felix’s brain nearly short-circuits. What is he supposed to say to _that_ ? _‘Oh, sorry that I was such an asshole to you after you suffered through the worst trauma of your life, I was an emotionally constipated piece of shit without the ability to articulate and it’s how I remained, and, by the way, I feel extremely guilty and I think I’m in love with you.’_ Oh, yeah. That’d go over swimmingly. 

Felix clears his throat, aiming to say goodbye and walk away from this conversation forever, “Do you want to come over?” 

Nailed it.

Dimitri blinks. Felix, eyes widening in horror, spectacularly back-pedals. “Actually, wait, that’s a bad idea. It’s nearly two in the morning, I have roommates—”

“How about coffee?” Dimitri asks, cutting off his embarrassing self-correction. “I doubt any respectable establishment is open at this hour, but we can go tomorrow, if you’re available? I’ll give you my number.”

“Yeah,” Felix agrees faintly, barely registering the voice as his own. “Yeah, that works.” 

Dimitri has a memo pad balanced on his box of ice cream, scribbling something down with a pen that’s far too nice to use for something so trivial. 

“Here,” he says, handing the small slip of paper to Felix. His smile is so bright it hurts. “Text me, will you?”

“Yeah,” Felix echoes, blinking himself out of a stupor as the paper finds its way into his hand and then to the pocket of his hoodie. “Yeah, I will.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Dimitri replies, tone warm with hope, and Felix’s heart stumbles again over its rhythm. Heart palpitations cannot be good for him at age twenty-four. He nods again, slowly, and it seems to satisfy Dimitri.

“Have a good night, Felix,” Dimitri says, and Felix echoes some sentiment of farewell through a noncommittal grunt. He watches Dimitri walk all the way down the aisle until he turns, vanishing from view, taking his ice cream and his stupid spearmint gum with him.

Felix frowns at the bag of milk in his basket as if it had personally offended him. 

“Fuck you, Sylvain,” he tells it, but the obnoxious red packaging says nothing in return. The piece of paper Dimitri gave him is heavy in his pocket. Felix sighs.

When he returns to the apartment, any traces of milk from the kitchen floor are gone. Good riddance.

Sylvain is still splayed out on their sofa, snoring quietly. Ingrid keeps watch in one of the armchairs, curled up in a faded knit blanket with a book open across her lap. She looks up when he shuts the front door, raising a brow as he violently slides the lock back in place.

“Fucking Sylvain,” Felix mutters, forcing off his shoes and stomping to the kitchen with the bag of milk in tow.

“Are you really that upset?” Implores Ingrid from the living room, placing a bookmark at the centrefold to mark her place in the story as she closes the novel. Felix opens the fridge and shoves the bag of milk onto the bottom shelf.

“Next time he touches anything in the kitchen inebriated, just deck him,” Felix replies through clenched teeth, elbowing the fridge door shut as he goes to get a glass of water. “Or, better yet, ban him from consuming alcohol in the first place. He’s a shitty drunk.”

“Felix, you can’t cure stupid,” Ingrid sighs, shaking her head.

“You’re right. Kick him out, then,” Felix counters, holding his glass under the tap to fill it. 

Ingrid frowns. “You’re pricklier than usual. Did something happen at the grocery store?”

Felix chokes on his water, coughing violently. Recalls, suddenly, the gentle upward slope of Dimitri’s lips. Coughs again, just to explain the sudden redness of his cheeks, breathing out a strangled, “No,” once the fit subsides. “I’m fine,” he adds, for good measure. “Just great. Better than ever.”

“Are you sure everything’s alright?” Ingrid asks again, inclining her head to the side. “You look a bit flushed.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Felix insists, setting the glass down on the counter. “I don’t know what you’re still doing up, but I’m going to bed. Unlike some people, I have class tomorrow.”

“Well, okay,” Ingrid replies, clearly not convinced. “Whatever you say. Good night, Felix.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Felix says, and shuts his bedroom door. Sighs, when all is finally quiet. Then, taking the slip of paper out of his pocket, he settles on the bed.

His heart is still beating far too rapidly for his liking.

 _Dimitri_ —Dimitri is here. In the city, not overseas on deployment like his father had said he was some time ago. Dimitri reached out to him, even after all these years and everything that happened between them. It strikes Felix suddenly that he didn’t even deign him with his own name. Called him boar, like his old habits dictated.

Felix remembers how much Dimitri hated that name, and cringes, slightly. Dimitri deserves better than that, and Felix knows it. That is not to say he harbours no anger, no bitterness. He has plenty of both, but he is older, now, different than the crass and careless boy he used to be. After everything, the least he can do is call Dimitri by his name. 

His phone is heavy in his hand, the numbers on the small slip stark and beckoning.

Felix sighs again, shakes his head. Though he knows he’s going to be busy tomorrow, he punches in the digits anyway.

_Cafe down the block from the grocery store. Meet me there at 11. -F_

* * *

The next morning, Felix wakes up with a pounding headache and a new text from an unknown number.

It reads: _Of course, Felix. I will be there -DAB_ , and Felix nearly falls off the bed. For the first few moments after waking, he was almost able to convince himself that last night’s events were but a dream, inspired by the sappy, disgusting romcoms Sylvain blasts through their apartment when he gets genuinely sad about being a manipulative playboy. His morals, seemingly, _do_ surface on occasion. (Funnily enough, it’s Ingrid who fixes Felix with a glower when he threatens to smash their TV, but that’s besides the point.)

Felix opens his phone, frowning at the message’s five a.m. timestamp. _Did Dimitri even sleep?_

In any case, Felix can confront him later. At eleven, in the coffee shop down the road from the grocery store, right after his first class. 

When he makes it to the living room, Sylvain is _still_ asleep on the couch. Felix scowls, then, and after looking around and calling “Ingrid?” to no response, he goes and puts an ice cube down Sylvain’s shirt. 

Sylvain wakes up with an undignified yelp as Felix is making himself breakfast, the utterance shortly followed by a loud thump. Well, at least one of them fell off their respective beds. Serves Sylvain right for his milky midnight disaster. 

“Felix! I know it was you!” Sylvain calls indignantly from the living room. Felix glances over the kitchen island to see him sprawled between the couch and the coffee table, long limbs tangled in the knitted blanket he’d seen Ingrid using last night. 

“No, it was the consequences of your actions,” Felix tells him, going back to stirring his omelet with a spatula in the shape of a cat. 

“Unfair and untrue,” Sylvain counters, and Felix sees him try, and fail, to untangle himself from the blanket. “The consequences of my actions wouldn’t do this! They only weigh on my conscien—Hmph!”

Felix looks over again, only to see Sylvain lying facedown on the floor. He gives him a nonchalant hum in response. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Sylvain lets out a garbled grunt from the ground, which Felix can only assume is a series of choice words aimed at certain aspects of his personality. He ignores him, instead turning down the heat on the stove and obtaining a plate from the cupboard.

His eggs, Felix will have you know, are delicious.

By the time he shows up to his nine a.m. class, he’s thoroughly satisfied his hunger and is in a much more presentable state than he was in the previous night. 

Professor Hanneman is leading their lecture today, which is fine by Felix. 

Hanneman is in his fifties, with grey hair and a beard still streaked with black. Felix doesn’t mind the way he conducts his class, though he does admit that Hanneman’s fascination with DNA splicing initiatives is a little more in-depth than that of an average chemistry professor. He also sometimes delves into alchemy, which, fine, if not a little strange because isn’t that just theoretical? In any case, Felix’s grades aren’t terrible, and that’s what matters. If he gets a little disinterested and zones out, well, that’s not really on him.

The lecture is introductory, and therefore, boring. Hanneman tends to drone on more often than not, and Felix is more than content to let his mind wander. He’s not much into chemistry, anyway. It’s not his fault this is a mandatory class. Naturally, it does not take long for his thoughts to drift to his lunchtime meeting. And, inevitably, to Dimitri.

Dimitri, who, the last time Felix saw him before last night, was focused solely on his training, pushing his body to and beyond its limits. Felix remembers a crushing weight of helplessness as he watched Dimitri spiral further and further down and away from him, the countless nights he’d spent pleading with a man who could see nothing but rank and retribution. The hollow gaze Dimitri had fixed on him then—Felix shivers. It’s not something he wants to relive.

It was unsurprising that their days at the academy together were numbered. Felix’s belief in the military devotion his family upheld began to erode with Glenn’s death in a country they had no business in, and his father’s words in the aftermath did not do much to help. Nor did Dimitri’s single-minded dedication to the bloodied path they were sure to carve. No, Felix’s faith had long since veered off course, for better or worse.

The last time Felix saw Dimitri was five years ago, at the gates of the military academy as he was loading his bags into his car. Felix was nineteen, exhausted and angry, and the boy he loved had become unrecognizable. He wasn’t kind; and although he doesn’t remember exactly what he said to Dimitri that day, Dimitri’s hollow, hurt expression would be seared into his memory forever. He remembers crying on the interstate, vowing he would never let anyone close again.

Felix twists his hands together as Hanneman switches the slide.

Dimitri’s return has blindsided him. There’s no other way to put it. Why did he agree to coffee with him again? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just ignore him and his stupid puppy-dog smile and just walk away? Felix has done it to Sylvain countless times, so why is this any different? (He knows the answer to that, of course. It makes it no easier to deal with.)

His phone lights up. Felix looks down. _Are you still available this morning?_

Huh. Think of the devil and he shall appear, as they say. Or, more accurately, think of the devil and he’ll text you something ridiculous. _Yeah we’re still on_ , Felix replies. Thinks about it, then thinks about it some more. Is this kind of affirmation too out-of-character for him? _If you’re still free, that is_ , he adds, and nods to himself in satisfaction.

Dimitri’s reply comes instantaneously. _I am still available! Just wanted to check in before we met up in case anything happened on your end. I am looking forward to our meeting_.

 _No_ , Felix’s face is decidedly _not_ on fire. Again, he is _not_ by any measure red in the face, nor is he reaching into his bag to get water because everything is _fine_ . _Ok whatever. See you then_ , Felix types back, sinking into his chair as he sinks his forehead into his palm. Everything is just fantastic. Nothing wrong whatsoever.

Somehow, he finds Hanneman’s lecture somewhat more tolerable after that.

* * *

The cafe down the road from the grocery store isn’t one he visits frequently.

His cafe of choice is a lot more hidden. Both from passersby, and from people who want to bother him with stupid things like helping them with homework or, God forbid, replacing their spilt milk. It’s also more run-down and intimate than this one, and, frankly, he’s not sure if he’s ready for that. Not with Dimitri. Not yet. Besides, Dimitri will probably know this one if the grocery store close by is the one he usually frequents.

Felix arrives five minutes after eleven, cursing the blasted rain, and then Hanneman for stretching his useless class for fifteen minutes longer than it was meant to be. If Felix has to hear one more thing about an alchemic equation which can be used in place of a fog machine, he will run Hanneman through with his pen. If Hanneman could spend his time on actually useful endeavours, like spells to make Felix’s hair and jacket dry instantly, that would be infinitely more appreciated.

A bell rings out above his head as he enters. The interior of the cafe is doused in warmth, the booths draped in beige and red accents lining the countertops. It’s cozy, in its own way. And, most importantly, dry.

Felix spots Dimitri as soon as he walks through the door. He sits at a secluded booth in the back corner, and Felix can’t help but notice that it’s in sight of both the windows and the door, placed strategically against a wall. He forces the scowl off his face. Dimitri doesn’t have a drink yet, but he’s holding the menu far tighter than he needs to. Felix makes his way towards him.

“Dimitri,” he greets, and Dimitri’s head snaps up, blue eye wide.

“Felix,” he breathes as Felix slides into the booth across from him, the sound of it near reverent. “I—”

“Don’t say it,” Felix interrupts, awkwardly. Turn out that slipping his coat off while seated is a lot harder than taking it off beforehand. He huffs, continuing, “I know you’re gonna say something sappy, and I don’t care, but save it for later, would you? I’m parched.”

Dimitri clears his throat, hands holding the menu slowly lowering. “Alright, of course.”

Felix sighs, but it’s a relief to see that some of the stiffness has faded from Dimitri’s upright posture. He folds his coat and leaves it in the empty space between himself and the wall of the booth, then picks up his own menu. “What are you getting?”

“I’m not hungry,” Dimitri says, followed shortly by the growling of his stomach. Felix raises a brow, and Dimitri sighs, acquiescing, “I was too nervous to eat breakfast.”

Felix puts his menu down. Bristles, “Dimitri. You can’t be putting off your meals for my sake. Eat.”

Dimtri, bless him, blushes profusely. Felix decides that looking at him is painful and focuses on his own menu instead. Tries, without much success, to ignore the quickening rhythm of his heart.

“I—Thank you, Felix,” Dimitri tells him, and Felix doesn’t know what for. “You’ve always watched out for me.”

At this, Felix blanches. _You’ve always watched out for me_. Has he? Did he watch out for Dimitri when Glenn died? Or when Dimitri’s mental health spiralled into a dark and lonesome place that Felix didn’t want to go near let alone interact with on any level, did he watch out for Dimitri then? No. The answer, decidedly and truthfully, is no. 

“I don’t ‘ _watch out_ ’ for people,” he replies scathingly, because that is easier than being honest. Dimitri blinks, once, then looks back down at the table as silence falls between them. It is not companionable in any way, but tense and awkward and uncomfortable, and Felix finds himself hating his instinct to verbal cruelty all the more. He backtracks, as he often does around Dimitri, forcefully directing himself to the kinder, less trodden path. “Look. I just—I could have been better, is all.”

Despite his resistance, the admission is still far more raw than he intended it to be. Dimitri glances upward.

“It is forgiven, truly,” Dimitri says, though Felix didn’t say sorry. 

Felix frowns, and tells him as much. “I didn’t apologize.”

“It’s alright,” Dimitri reassures, head bowed, looking as if he wants to reach out. “I know what you meant.”

And, Felix? Felix freezes, eyes flitting between Dimitri’s downturned head and the hand he almost extended, heart seizing, unbidden. He coughs, and— _man_ , heart problems _really_ shouldn’t be a problem for him yet—and forces his fingers to unclench from around the menu.

“Aw, Felix,” coos a honey-sweet voice from somewhere on his left and Felix groans. “Did your heart get stuck in your throat again?”

And thus, materializes the second reason he barely comes here: Hilda, who, unfortunately, is the cafe’s star waitress. Felix can _hear_ the falsely upturned eyebrows in her voice. She’s dressed in a dark tank top, thighs showing through her jeans, long pigtails bouncing almost comically as she fishes around in the pocket of her apron to find a pen. How she became the neighbourhood sweetheart will forever elude him, but it’s all as well. 

Once Felix has recovered and given her an appropriate glare in return, she grins, smugly. “So, who’s the new beau?”

“Shut up,” he growls, sparing a sideways glance at Dimitri, who has turned bright red in the face. Felix, internally, agrees with the unspoken words between them as Dimitri meets his eyes. Speaking with Hilda is mortifying. “I thought you didn’t work Tuesdays?”

“Oh, well, you know,” Hilda starts, sighing melodramatically. She twists a strand of her bubblegum pink hair as she continues, “I owed Leonie a favour, and, well, who can resist?”

Felix cocks a brow, disbelieving, and Hilda’s face falls. “Ugh, fine. If you _must_ know, she blackmailed me into working because I didn’t show up at all last week.”

“Seems about right,” Felix snickers, met with an indignant _Hey!_ from Hilda. “I’ll be having my coffee black. Poppyseed bagel and in-house cream cheese, or I find Leonie and tell her that you’re slacking on her shift.”

“You’re no fun,” Hilda tells him, sticking out her tongue in a childish display of mockery. Felix notes that her name tag has a heart sticker on it. Then, turning to Dimitri, her entire demeanour does a complete one-eighty as she asks sweetly, “What would you like today, dear?”

Dimitri, feeling a bit dizzy from the whiplash, mumbles, ever intelligently, “Uh.”

Felix sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He’ll have black tea, with milk. No sugar. And, for God’s sake, get this man a sandwich.”

“Geez, there’s no need to be so pushy,” Hilda mutters in annoyance, jotting down their selection. Doubling up on the charm, to Dimitri, “We’ll have your order ready in a short while. Will that be all?”

Dimitri, still dazed, manages a mumbled, “Yes, thank you,” and Hilda grins.

“Sweet! Thanks for stopping by,” she replies, smiling warmly. Then, to Felix, maintaining her over-excited, childlike tone, “Don’t be such a grouch. It’s unseemly!”

Before Felix can retort, Hilda grabs their menus with one hand and waves goodbye with the other, sauntering out of reach and out of earshot. Felix glowers when she blows a kiss, crossing his arms over his chest. Dimitri, the bastard, hides his face behind his palm, surprise having faded to amusement, his concealed smile evident through the twinkle in his one visible eye.

“She seems sweet,” Dimitri says, and Felix groans instinctually. 

“Please, ignore her,” he grumbles, much to Dimitri’s amusement. “She’s a terrible influence.”

Silence falls between them again, but it’s lighter than before. Running a hand through his hair, forgetting that he has it up, Felix curses when his fingers tear strands out of the unfortunate ponytail he put up that morning. He fiddles with it some more, but sighs in frustration at the additional locks that escape despite his effort, ultimately letting out a heavy sigh and just using the elastic that lives around his wrist to tie the rest of it into a firm bun. In the meantime, Dimitri drums his fingers on the table.

They never really were great at talking to each other, were they?

Across from him, Dimitri shifts in his seat. Felix glances up, then down again. Tells him, “If you want to say something, say it.”

“I—” Dimitri starts, the weight of his gaze heavy upon him. He seems lost. “You remembered.”

It’s in reference to his order, of course. Felix grunts. “I was right? Thought it’d be different after so many years, bo—”

He cuts himself off before the word can be uttered in full. Has to remind himself, that Dimitri is here of his own will, and that Felix isn’t who he used to be. It’s hard, to change, to grow, but—He’s trying. He’s trying, for Dimitri. It’s the least he can do, after all he’s done already.

Dimitri is silent for a long while, and Felix thinks he has offended him. It wouldn’t be the first time, but that doesn’t stop the flare of guilt in his chest. He clears his throat. The apology is stuck somewhere in his throat, choked by all the things he wants to say but isn’t brave enough to utter.

Somehow, Dimitri understands. “I had thought you would rather forget, is all. Thank you.”

Felix looks up, searching, but Dimitri has always been painfully, blindingly earnest. There is no deceit in the fine lines marring his face, no ulterior motive hidden behind his tired smile. He is Dimitri, alive and in the flesh, sitting before him as Felix had never imagined he could. Wearing simple clothes, his hair long and loose, just like it used to be in childhood. 

A burst of warmth suddenly explodes in Felix’s chest, fuzzy and familiar. For a moment, he can pretend that Dimitri was never gone at all, and that this meeting at Felix’s not-quite-favourite coffeeshop was a regular occurrence, and that Dimitri’s scars were of more innocent origin than war. Though it is a fleeting thought, Dimitri’s smile is so kind and genuine that Felix cannot help but entertain the idea. It would have been better, if that were the case. Perhaps, perhaps the love that Felix tucks away into the furthest corner of his mind would be—

No. Going any further down that train of thought would bring nothing but hurt.

Felix intertwines and disentangles his fingers, veins thrumming with impatience and something else he cannot quite name. Then, forcing his lips around the words, he looks up. “Did you get discharged?”

Dimitri startles, as if he weren’t expecting the question. His surprise quickly fades into understanding, the lines of his face smoothing into something more solemn. 

“Yes,” he says, quietly. “I left of my own will. It’s—It was time to move on, I think.”

There’s more that he’s not saying, but Felix isn’t one to push. Not with this, not with Dimitri. Not when the last time Felix saw him, he slammed his car door in his face and told him something unforgivable. He has no right to question, to judge. If Dimitri wants to tell him, it is his choice and his alone.

Felix nods, slowly. Wets his lips, thinking of something worthwhile to say. Anything, anything. “How’d you find me?”

Okay, not quite what he’d meant to say, but.

“Rodrigue told me,” Dimitri responds. “I didn’t ask, but he seemed oddly insistent. Said I should settle somewhere close, and that the city is profitable. I don’t have anywhere else to go. And—” here, Dimitri pauses, hesitant, but persists “—I suppose I wanted to see you again, even after everything.”

The admission is personal, raw; something Felix isn’t deserving of hearing. He wants to say something, but his vocal chords have seemingly fallen out of order. He can’t decide whether he’s thankful or resentful when Hilda comes bearing drinks.

“Alright, boys,” she greets cheerfully, setting her tray down on the far end of the table. “One coffee, black, as requested, and tea with milk.”

“Thank you, Hilda,” Dimitri tells her, voice far lighter than it had been a moment ago. This time, it is Felix who is rendered silent at the sudden change. 

“Felix?” Hilda asks innocently. “Aren’t you going to thank me for your delicious cup’o joe?”

“You’re hilarious,” Felix snaps, taking the offered mug. Then, quieter, “Thanks.”

“Ha! I knew you can’t stand being impolite to customer service!” She proclaims, triumphant, pumping a fist in the air. “Food is taking a bit longer, but nothing to be done about that. Ashe nearly set the stove on fire again, the poor lad.”

“Is he alright?” Dimitri asks, brows raised in alarm. 

“He’s got it under control, now, don’t you worry.” Hilda laughs, the sound warm as bells, playfully swatting his shoulder. Dimitri immediately tenses, and she draws her hand away just as quickly, smile turning to a frown. “Are you okay?”

“Ah—yes,” Dimitri stammers, shoulders too stiff. “I am—I’m perfectly fine, thank you. Battlefield instinct, I suppose. I am used to it.”

“I’m so sorry!” Hilda insists, the apology genuine. Her posture seems suddenly awkward. “My brother served, too, so, I get where you’re coming from.”

“That’s a relief,” Dimitri huffs, his expression strained. “My regards his way.”

“Yes, well,” Hilda sniffs, bravado broken. “I’ll just—I’ll be going, now. Your food’ll be ready soon!”

Felix watches Dimitri as his gaze trails Hilda’s departing figure, thoughtful. When she’s out of sight, Dimitri looks down at the table, hands fisted on the surface and knuckles white. He breathes out, slowly, and Felix can almost hear the way he’s counting in his head. To five, down again. Just as they were taught, back in the cadet squadron and at the academy. 

If he was so inclined, Felix knows he could say something hurtful. A part of him thinks it, wants to unleash the nasty, snarling monster curled up in the corner of his mind, along with his memory of Glenn and other, darker things. He holds his tongue.

“I must apologize,” Dimitri says, after a while.

Felix blinks. “What for?”

“I did not wish for you to see that,” he replies morosely, lightly wringing his hands. “It is… A weakness that I have not been able to overcome.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that, Dimitri.” Felix meets his eye, determined. For the first time in a long while, they are on equal footing. He refuses to allow Dimitri down such a path of self-deprecation again. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. It’s not—The things that happened, they weren’t your fault, okay? So don’t apologize. Not when you didn’t have an ounce of control over how shit turned out.”

“Do you hate me?” Dimitri asks, blue eye haunted, and the suddenness of the question stuns Felix into silence.

“I don’t,” he says, at last. “I never did.”

It is like pushing the weight of the world off his back. Dimitri sighs, breathes out. His hand, half outstretched, is clearly open in invitation, if Felix were to pay close enough attention. Felix does. He always, _always_ has. 

“Thank you,” Dimitri whispers, voice strained to the verge of cracking, and Felix cracks a smile. Kind, genuine, one he hasn’t shown the world since it was pulled out from under him with the death of his brother. 

In a rare burst of confidence, he keeps his eyes locked on Dimitri. Sees, intimately, the shaky exhale leave Dimitri’s parted lips as Felix reaches out in return. The moment that passes between them feels like reassurance, a promise. 

He feels warm, so warm, as their fingertips touch.

“I—” Felix starts, and is interrupted by the arrival of their lunch.

“Oh-kay!” Offers Hilda in greeting as she sidles up to their table, tray in tow, and Dimitri and Felix’s hands immediately spring apart. Hilda doesn’t seem to notice. “Sorry for the wait. Dig in!”

At their collective silence, she cocks her head, raising a brow. “Did I interrupt something?”

Felix clears his throat. Forces his head to bob, and Hilda’s eyes widen in understanding. She sets their plates down with a flourish and a small grin, and leaves with a wink and a hushed, “I’ll leave you boys to it, then.”

The ensuing quiet, Felix finds, is welcome. 

“There,” he says, pushing Dimitri’s plate towards him. “Eat.”

Dimitri hums, content, a warm glint shining in the deep blue of his eye. Felix picks up his bagel and takes a bite, relieved when Dimitri follows suit. Baby steps, he acquiesces. Sharing a meal together is something they haven’t done in a long time. Felix supposes it’s not half bad. Not by a long shot.

When they’re both finished, mugs equally empty and plates bare save for crumbs, Felix waves Hilda over for the bill. 

“I’ll get it,” he tells her before Dimitri can butt in. She chances a glance to the other side of the table, but ultimately nods, her sunny disposition bright as she goes to the register. 

Across from him, Dimitri looks conflicted. 

“I could have paid,” he starts, but Felix will have none of it. 

“It’s fine,” Felix says, voice firm.

“No, really,” Dimitri tries again, “I must insist—”

“I’m the one who invited you out, didn’t I?”

“Well, actually—”

“You know what?” Felix retaliates, “Forget it. I don’t care. I’m paying, and you can’t change my mind.” 

It sounds childish, even to him, but Dimitri only sighs in response. Felix considers it a victory.

“Your receipt,” Hilda offers in lieu of greeting a few moments later, handing Felix a small black folder with the mentioned item within. Then, teasingly, the cadence of her voice like velvet, “Hope you two enjoyed your lunch.”

“Thanks, Hilda,” Felix says, slipping several bills into the pocket adjacent to the receipt. “You can keep the change.”

“That’s so generous!” she chirps, blowing him a kiss. “You’re far too kind to a pretty girl like me.”

Felix rolls his eyes, rising to his feet, and Hilda takes her cue to leave. Dimitri, too, stands and exits the booth, and, for a moment, they are at a sort of strange impasse. 

“I had a good time,” Dimitri admits, offering a shy smile. 

“Glad to hear it,” Felix replies curtly, though his own lips twitch up in return. “I’d hate to waste your morning.”

Dimitri huffs in amusement, the sound just shy of a laugh. Felix’s heart does something strange again, but he ignores it, choosing instead to slip on his jacket and head outside, Dimitri following behind him. The bell rings above their heads as they walk out the door.

Outside, the rain seems to have fizzled out and slowed to a drizzle. It’s bearable, Felix decides, stepping out from below the awning. Dimitri comes to stand beside him, taller than Felix remembers him being. Completely unfair.

“I’ve got another class,” Felix tells him, angry at the fact that he has to crane his head back to get a good look at Dimitri’s face. 

“Okay,” Dimitri replies. “I hope it goes well, Felix.”

“Text me,” he says, before he can stop himself.

“I will.”

“Good.” Felix nods, hoisting his bag so that it sits more comfortably on his shoulders, and definitely not so that he can have something to do that distracts him from Dimitri.

“I hope we can do this again, sometime,” Dimitri confides, his smile infectious and warm and hearty. Felix finds himself nodding as they walk further down the street, back towards his campus and the rest of their lives.

He opens his mouth, something snarky and witty on the tip of his tongue— “Yeah, me too.”

 _God damn it_ , he thinks, suppressing a cringe. _I did it again_.

Dimitri takes it in stride, unaware of Felix’s internal conflict. Smiles, like there is nothing wrong in the world. 

“Good day, Felix,” he says. “Thank you for lunch.”

Felix watches him walk away until he's out of sight, feet frozen to the damp concrete. His heart stutters again, in a fickle imitation of farewell, and Felix’s breath catches in his throat and rushes out in one fell swoop. Dimitri is alive. Battered, something in him having snapped, but _alive_. 

It is reminiscent, almost, of the time before the accident, when Felix still allowed himself to love. He thinks, perhaps, that the world isn’t against him, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

When Felix gets home from his last class, Sylvain greets him at the door.

“Ugh,” Felix grunts, pushing past him into the living room after kicking off his shoes. Sylvain’s face falls in mock hurt as he trails after Felix, clearly lacking anything better to do.

“What? You didn’t miss me?” He asks, feigning heartbreak, dramatically bringing a hand to his chest.

“No.” Felix goes to drop his backpack by the dining table and then slips out of his jacket, making his way back to the entrance to hang it in the closet by the door. “You’re insufferable and annoying. Get out of my sight.”

“Really, just like that?” Sylvain continues, dogging Felix as he pulls last night’s leftovers out of the fridge. “Where’s your compassion?”

Felix doesn’t bother deigning him with a response. Instead, he takes a plate and shovels himself a portion of the mac and cheese he’d made the previous night, ahead of their milk catastrophe. The microwave door slams shut as he sets the timer. 

“C’mon, Felix, talk to me,” Sylvain pesters, leaning obtrusively against the kitchen counter directly on Felix’s left. “As your friend, I am asking about your day.”

“Fuck off and die,” Felix says without bite, tapping the counter impatiently.

“Yes, fuck you,” Sylvain replies on instinct, face unchanging. “How were your classes? Was Hanneman’s lecture as boring as ever?”

“What’s it to you?” Felix questions, taking his plate out of the microwave and setting it on the kitchen island. Then, fishing a fork out of the drawer by the sink and pointing it at Sylvain, “Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Hey, that’s unfair,” Sylvain declares in rebuttal. _No, it’s not_ , Felix thinks. “Ingrid tells me about her day, why can’t you?”

Felix sighs. Doesn’t say: _well, that’s because Ingrid has a soft spot for you a mile wide_ , because that should be apparent. Instead, he makes a threat. “She won’t be complacent in your pestering for long if I tell her you’re still blowing off your one class to cure a hangover on a Tuesday morning.”

Sylvain’s eyes widen. He gasps, shocked. “You wouldn’t.”

Felix averts his gaze, taking a bite of his mac and cheese. “I would.”

“What kind of friend would that make you?” Sylvain cries, hands crossed over his heart, offended. “Wouldn’t it weigh on your conscience?”

“Not one bit.” 

Sylvain closes his eyes solemnly. “I see.”

“Not with your eyes closed, you don’t,” Felix retorts, forking more of his mac and cheese into his mouth. Sylvain makes a show of sighing, exasperatedly touching the back of his hand to his forehead.

“Felix, you wound me, truly,” he says, shoulders hunching forward. Felix ignores him in favour of finishing his meal in blessed silence. Thankfully taking the hint, Sylvain moves to the living room to lie on the couch, laptop laid across his thighs, seemingly defeated. Felix can’t imagine he’s doing any actual work. 

“Are you going to stream tonight?”

“Probably. Haven’t decided yet,” Sylvain tells him, eyes fixed on his screen. 

“If you do,” Felix starts with derision and a pointed glare his way, “You’d better keep it down. I have work to do, and I don’t want to have to deal with noise complaints from our neighbours. Again.”

Sylvain glances up. “From what I remember, Ingrid handled it. You just—” He wrings his hands, and raises his brows pleadingly as if Felix should understand.

“I just what, Sylvain,” Felix says, slowly.

At this, Sylvain only lets out another heavy sigh. “You know? Never mind.”

“Anyway, if you do,” Felix tells him from the kitchen a few moments later, accompanied by a clatter as he puts his dishes in the sink. “I’m not joining your match.”

Sylvain blinks. “I didn’t ask.”

Water rushes from the tap as Felix washes the dishes, arranging them in the dishwasher rather than on the shelf. Sylvain looks over with a grimace. “Felix, you do know that you don’t have to wash them before putting them in the dishwasher, right? That’s the dishwasher’s job.”

“Your instant, microwaveable garbage leaves the nastiest stains,” Felix sneers, the phrase interspersed with the occasional squeaking of sponge on ceramic. “You leave me no choice.”

Sylvain opens his mouth to reply, but closes it soon thereafter, apparently thinking better of it. Felix nods to himself in satisfaction, dutifully scrubbing each dish clean and carefully placing it on the dishwasher rack. With every faint clatter, he can almost hear Sylvain’s wince. _Serves him right_ , he thinks to himself.

Ingrid comes home a little while later. She sheds her coat immediately, walking angrily over to their living room.

From his place on the sofa, Sylvain raises a brow. “What’s wrong, Ing?”

“God!” Ingrid exclaims, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Someday, I _will_ strangle Ferdinand von Aegir, and that’s a promise.”

Sylvain puts his laptop on the coffee table and stands up, stretching his arms above his head. Chuckles lightly, “Do you just have it out for sexy gingers?”

She swats his arm, fixing him with a dark glare. “Don’t even get me started.”

“I agree. He’s too full of himself,” Felix says from the kitchen, hip resting against the counter. He’s wiping his hands with the dishtowel, face turned in a scowl. 

“Man, Felix, you too?” Sylvain asks, faking incredulity. “Really, now, I kinda feel bad for the guy.”

“Don’t,” Ingrid and Felix say simultaneously, eyes narrowing at Sylvain. He raises his hands defensively, just in case.

“Tough crowd,” he mutters, scratching his head. Then, after having collected his laptop and a glass of water, “I think I’m gonna go get started on my stream.”

Felix watches his retreating back, shaking his head all the while. 

“Don’t be too loud!” Ingrid calls after him.

“I won’t!” He hollers back, and shuts the door.

Felix sighs in relief. “Finally, some peace and quiet.”

Ingrid pins her gaze on him in Sylvain’s absence. “I hope you two didn’t rile each other up too much while I was gone.”

Felix bristles, frowning. “How old do you think we are? Five?”

“Could have fooled me,” she replies without skipping a beat, going to rifle through her backpack.

“Fine,” Felix says, returning the dishtowel to where it was hanging on the stove handle. “I’m going to my room.”

He leaves without waiting for a response. Now that Sylvain’s finished wasting his time, he can get started on the things he needs to do. Unlike Sylvain, Felix does go to class, and takes notes, and does the work. Not perfectly, but what’s the point in being an academic perfectionist when he has better things to do? None whatsoever, in Felix’s very humble opinion. 

Several hours into his self-imposed solitude, his phone buzzes. He glances over to where it rests on the corner of his desk and pauses when he sees the contact name. It’s Dimitri.

 _I wanted to thank you again for lunch_. 

Felix gets the sudden urge to throw his phone across the room. He restrains it, just barely, bringing the screen closer to him and tapping into the chat. _It’s no problem_ , he replies, placing his phone back on the desk and refocusing on the open document on his computer. He has a paper to write for Hanneman’s class. It’s not alchemy, which is a relief, but the actual subject matter at hand is no less convoluted. 

It’s fine. He can get this done quickly and then he can go to bed, ignoring Sylvain’s stream-induced yelling from the next room over. Faintly, he hears a blast followed by a quiet groan, meaning Sylvain’s team lost. Felix shakes his head in disapproval, muttering, “You’re a Mei main, Sylvain, how hard can it be?”

A few moments later, his phone lights up again. Felix knows without looking that it’s Dimitri. This time, the message reads, _Would you join me on an outing sometime next week? I’m afraid I am still unfamiliar with the city, and you seem to know it better than I_.

Felix ponders the offer. Types, _Already hoping for a second date?_ then deletes the offending message out of his text box and out of his mind as his face burns scarlet. He doesn’t have the right to say things along the line of romantic connection. Dimitri and… him? No, unthinkable, no matter how much he wants to consider the prospect. 

_How about Friday?_ He inputs instead, and sends it before he can change his mind. It’s normal enough, if he can ignore the fact that Friday is decidedly not next week and actually three days from today, and that his innocent suggestion of Friday gives away more than he probably should. But, well, Dimitri is oblivious, so it may as well pass right over his head.

Dimitri’s response comes a minute later. _I do apologize, but I may not be able to make it on Friday. Sunday, perhaps?_

Felix inhales sharply, gripping his phone tighter. Forces the ugly, unbidden flare of disappointment back down from whence it came. Carefully unclenches his fingers, and shakily writes back: _That works for me_.

 _I’m glad. Would meeting at the same place be alright?_

If he tries hard enough, Felix can almost hear Dimitri’s voice. Conflicted, something unfamiliar twisting in his chest, he tells him, _Yeah, it’s fine_.

 _Great_ , Dimitri replies. Felix turns his phone off, and releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Even texting is turning his heart to a fluttering, uncontrollable, flip-floppy mess. This is getting ridiculous.

Felix stands up to stretch, aptly deciding that his essay is no longer worth his time, and lets his hair down, sliding the elastic back to its usual place around his wrist. His bed is a far more comfortable resting place than his desk chair, so he retrieves his phone and slips under the duvet, briefly shutting his eyes to gather his scattered thoughts. 

Laying in bed, it is easier to address that his world has been flipped onto its head. He considers the events of the past week, scrutinizing where it all went wrong. 

Firstly, the milk. That, thankfully, has been fully rectified, and he has Ingrid’s consent to shove Sylvain into bed or in the bathtub to prevent a second coming. The other thing, which originated with the milk problem, he has less of a grasp on. Dimitri. He has no idea what to do about Dimitri. 

In childhood, they were the closest of friends, but now? The things that had bound them then have since splintered apart. Glenn died, as did Lambert and the people they used to be. Now, they are each two pieces of an old, worn puzzle, edges frayed so that their fit isn’t as it once was. It is hard to reconcile. Difficult to think about things that Felix has long since hidden in the back of his mind, locked behind an imaginary door with a big red _X_ , signalling repressed feelings and memories he would rather ignore. 

Things have changed, though. Dimitri is back, and Felix is lost again.

He stares at the ceiling. It seems grey in the midnight dark, though Felix knows it is painted white. Perhaps the answer to living can be found in shades of grey. When he was younger, he liked the black and white approach. Appreciated set rules and regulations, knew his way in and around them like the back of his hand, and took Dimitri with him when he found an opportunity to step outside the bounds. But that all changed, and, well. The morality that Felix used to follow is as scrambled and disarrayed as his thoughts.

Absentmindedly, he unlocks his phone again, the tint of the screen blinding in the sullen night. He reads the texts Dimitri sent him, over and over again, and thinks of the stiff way Dimitri held his hands before him. Remembers, suddenly, the tense way he froze at Hilda’s touch, and his father’s phone calls, and _Dimitri has been deployed overseas._ His heart had seized at the news, no matter how much he tried to quell the sick fear settling in his chest.

That fear, he finds, hasn’t entirely dissipated. A part of him still views Dimitri as Dimitri at war, but who he’s fighting, Felix can’t discern. 

He turns his phone off and places it on the bedside table. Rolls to his side so that he’s facing the wall, the duvet drawn up about him as if it could shield him from the things he doesn’t want to think about, and that which he wishes to forget. 

Felix drifts off to sleep thinking of fields of azure, and a melancholy he can’t quite reach.

* * *

When Felix was little, his family would drive up to the Blaiddyd's northern estate for several weeks each summer. 

It was always a happy occasion, one that Felix looked forward to every year without fail. His father would wash the car beforehand, using their driveway and the hose instead of going to the carwash, giving both him and Glenn a sponge and asking them to help. It was a family affair, like all the things they did together.

They would drive up, afterwards, in their newly-shined car, dressed their best. Dimitri would greet them at the gates and hop into the backseat, chatting quietly with Felix as they drove up the lane towards the house.

And then, when their fathers had shaken hands and clasped each other on the back, Felix and Dimitri would be allowed to run around the expansive gardens, hand in hand. Sometimes, if they were feeling particularly rebellious, they would sneak further, wandering into the woods behind the chalet. That was the most fun of all. 

They had their own little glade, out in the backwoods. A clearing underneath the bright green canopy, filled with a sea of flowers doused in vibrant blue. It was the place where Felix felt most at peace. The blooms were his favourite colour, and reflected the cerulean shade of Dimitri’s eyes.

He remembers the summer of their seventh year the clearest. It went a little something like this:

Dimitri and Felix were out in the glade. Felix, having just learned from Glenn the trick to making a crown, was curious to try it out on the flowers he liked best. So, he walked, and Dimitri followed, picking flowers he thought best suitable for the task at hand. Forced Dimitri to turn away as he toiled, unwilling to spoil the surprise. He remembers being angry at the slow speed his clumsy fingers worked, weaving the stems together.

In the end, it wasn’t a perfect creation, but the smile Dimitri offered in return was worth it. The way he laughed, open and carefree, kept Felix warm all through the summer, and through the fall and winter, too. It kept him warm, even when he and Dimitri were separated for weeks at a time, and that warmth was an assurance. A promise that they would see each other again.

The crown Felix made had fit Dimitri perfectly.

* * *

Hanneman’s paper keeps him in through Wednesday morning.

Or, mostly. He still goes to the gym as soon as he wakes up, still leaves his room to make himself breakfast, and, of course, still takes the time to poke fun at Sylvain.

“Morning,” Sylvain groans from the dining table as Felix enters the kitchen, head bent over a cup of coffee. Felix cocks a brow, reaching to fetch a mug from the cupboard.

“Did you lose on stream again?” He asks, pushing a button on the kettle to heat the water within. Sylvain sighs, and it only serves to confirm what Felix already knows. “Congrats,” he says dryly.

“It’s so unfair,” Sylvain laments sullenly, nursing his mug with the same kind of reverence one would hard liquor. “I was so close! This Junkrat kept getting in my way and setting off bombs before I could get close. You know how hard it is to avoid that guy?”

“It’s not.” Felix deadpans, fixing him with a flat look. “At least, not if you main Genji.”

“You’re just saying that because _you_ main Genji,” Sylvain insists. “Face it. Everyone dies to Junkrat.”

“You’re just saying that because you lost,” Felix fires back as the kettle comes to a boil, steam streaming upwards in a cloud of heat. “Just accept that you don’t have the skills to beat him and move on.”

Sylvain stammers indignantly, but whatever he’s going to say next is cut off by Ingrid’s timely arrival from the hall.

“Sylvain, isn’t your management class at ten?” She asks tiredly. “It’s fifteen to.”

Sylvain slowly turns around to face her, a deer caught in the headlights. He recovers quickly. 

“I do, in fact, have class at ten,” he says with a wink. “Very astute of you.”

Ingrid sighs. “Then why, pray tell, are you still here and not on your way there?”

“I’ll be out of your hair in a minute, woman, _geez_ ,” Sylvain accedes, promising compliance. “Just let me finish my coffee. No use in going if I just fall asleep, right?”

He follows up the statement by raising his mug in a mock toast, and downing the contents in one go with a drawn-out slurp. Felix’s face wrinkles in disgust as Sylvain lets out a long burp, setting his cup back on the counter with a satisfied _thunk_. 

“You’re disgusting,” Felix says.

“It’s all part of my rugged charm,” Sylvain returns, waggling his brows. Then, following a glance at Ingrid only to meet her stone-cold gaze, he shrinks, hastily getting up from the table and walking in the direction of his room. “Sheesh! Can’t even eat breakfast in peace!”

Ingrid turns to Felix. “Reckon he’ll actually go?” 

“If you shove him out the door, maybe,” Felix replies, pouring milk over his tea.

“I sincerely hope that won’t be necessary.” Ingrid frowns into her glass of water, considering. “One would think he would be a little more responsible. He did decide to take this class himself, after all. I do wish he’d put in more of an effort.”

As if on cue, Sylvain stumbles out of his room, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. His jacket is just as crooked as his grin as he passes them by, opening the closet by the entryway. 

“Alright, fellow roomies,” he declares, forcing one of his feet into a sneaker by hopping up and down on the other. Felix inclines his head, but Sylvain lets out a heavy huff and persists, finding success after several moments of failure. “Worry not! I am going to class!”

“With one shoe?” Felix asks dubiously, glancing to where Sylvain’s second sneaker is resting on the floor.

“I haven’t gotten there yet,” Sylvain explains, grabbing his second shoe and sliding it on with as much, if not more difficulty, than he did the first. Once he’s finally got it on, though, he smiles smugly at the two of them. “See? Good to go.”

“Wow,” Ingrid says impassively. 

“Just go,” contributes Felix. 

Sylvain shakes his head, closing his eyes for dramatic effect. And then, _finally_ , heads out the door, without a proper goodbye to either of them. Ingrid sighs again, while Felix simply goes back to his preparations of breakfast, content to let the silence sit.

Ingrid breaks it first, still gazing into her cooling tea. “Do you ever think of the academy?”

Felix starts, whipping his head around to look at her. Pointedly, her eyes are fixed on her cup instead of him. He frowns. “What brought this up?”

“I’ve just been thinking, is all,” Ingrid tells him, quiet. She glances upwards, face carefully blank. “It’s been five years, you know?”

Felix thinks back to Dimitri’s smile–– _How long has it been?_ ––and his heart clenches. To Ingrid, he says, “Yeah, so what?”

“Half a decade, Felix,” she repeats insistently, laying her hands flat against the counter. Then, her eyes softening, “Do you ever think about him?”

Felix freezes. Sees Dimitri’s smile in his mind’s eye, warm and welcoming. Remembers, vividly, the last time he saw him at the academy. Suppresses a flinch as he replies, “So that’s what this is really about.”

Ingrid pales, her expression falling at the flash of pain that passes over Felix’s face, too quick to fully decipher. “No, Felix,” she corrects herself, “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what?” He asks icily, hands gripping the counter. His heart is beating too fast again. Of course he knows how long it’s been since that day, since he abandoned everything he worked towards in his youth. Drove away from Dimitri, and all that his presence entailed. Drove Dimitri himself away from the monster Felix feels he is.

Ingrid looks pained. “I was just thinking,” she echoes, standing up abruptly. Then, quickly, before turning and walking away, “I have to get to the station. I’ll see you later.”

“Are you on night patrol again?” He asks before she makes it out of the kitchen.

Ingrid looks back for a moment, posture tense, clearly eager to get away. “Yeah,” she tells him, and does just that.

Felix releases a heavy breath once she makes it out of sight. He’s driven Ingrid away, too, when all she did was mention a friend. The anger had come so easily, and for what? Ingrid hadn’t done anything wrong. His reaction was unprecedented, and it doesn’t sit well.

Felix frowns at his tea. It’s cooled down, now, steam no longer rising above the rim of the cup. Felix, too, is cold and tired. He drinks it all in one go.

* * *

They had found the river entirely by accident. 

Wandered a little further into the backwoods, past the glade ridden with blue, and stumbled upon it. Once, and again, until it became habitual, because the river was theirs in the same way the glade was, marking the border of their little kingdom and all that lay within.

Dimitri laughed first, eight years old and unafraid, still, to express joy. Had said, “Come on, Felix! Let’s go in!” and taken off his shoes, looking at Felix expectantly to do the same. 

Felix had been a bit more wary, shyly standing away from the water. But, Dimitri’s smile and joyous energy was infectious, and it wasn’t long before he was sporting a grin of his own, slipping off his shoes and following Dimitri into the river, pants rolled up to his knees. 

The shore was rocky, but they had waded in anyway, soon discovering that a little past the edge the stones gave way to clay, smooth and cool against their feet. Dimitri’s laughter tumbled warmly into the rush of running water, bouncing from the river foam and the stones to the green-yellow leaves. He waded further and further in, the water rising to the bottom of his knee-length shorts and dampening them, slightly. Dimitri didn’t seem to notice, throwing another open smile over his shoulder.

Felix’s heart thumped steadily. Something in the sincerity of Dimitri’s expression settled deep into his chest, a gentle warmth spreading through him. Even the water, frigid as he thought it to be, didn’t seem so cold, now. Overhead, the light sun shone through the breaks in the branches, dappling the river in golden light. 

(Later, they would clamber up onto the stones lining the shore and Felix would look up. Be struck by the way Dimitri’s eyes shone in the sunshine, and glance down again, cheeks dusted pale red, lips twitching upwards in a secret smile. He would think of Dimitri’s open, bell-like laugh until he went to sleep, and it would remain in his memory long thereafter, a recollection of that which would never be again.)

* * *

When he comes out of the shower later that evening, Felix discovers Sylvain engrossed in a phone call.

“—That works, sure,” he’s saying to the recipient on the other end, “Our other roommate’s a bit of a grump, but he won’t make a fuss, promise.”

Felix comes closer, damp hair held back from his face with a large clip. Clearly preoccupied, Sylvain doesn’t even notice as he walks into the room. Not knowing what else to do, Felix just stands there, waiting for Sylvain to hang up.

“Yeah, see you then,” Sylvain finishes, lowering the phone and tapping out of the call. He sighs, turning around, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Felix by the entrance to the hall.

“Who was that?” Felix asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh, Felix, didn’t see you there,” Sylvain says in a rush, working frantically to regain his composure. He grins sheepishly, using one hand to scratch the back of his neck. “It’s no one.”

“Sylvain.” Felix deadpans, pressing the issue. 

“Just a dinner guest, nothing more!” Sylvain insists, holding out his palms in a placating gesture. “He reached out a few days ago, so me and Ingrid invited him over for Friday night, that’s all.”

“Who is he?” 

“No one important,” Sylvain reassures, waving his hand around in a manner that’s supposed to be nonchalant but just looks like he’s having a bad time. “Don’t worry about it!”

Felix stares at him dubiously, tempted to raise a brow in retaliation. Sylvain nods at him again, and, seemingly satisfied with himself, goes over to the fridge.

“What’re you in the mood for?” He asks, squinting at the contents of the shelves. 

Felix shrugs, going over to sit at the island. “Just make whatever. You know I’m not picky.”

Sylvain glances over his shoulder, grin crooked, and knowingly says, “Not picky, huh?”

Eyes widening and then narrowing in quick succession, Felix bristles. “That’s low, Sylvain. I was a kid.”

“Uh huh,” Sylvain agrees, turning back to the fridge. 

Not fast enough, as Felix still catches the glint of amusement in his eyes. And, promptly, throws Sylvain’s tangled earbuds at his head. Sylvain startles, whipping his head around as his abused earbuds skitter across the kitchen tiles. Felix leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, smug. “Oops,” he says. “My bad.”

One hand still braced on the open door of the fridge, Sylvain only exhales a weary sigh. “Oh, Felix,” he starts, “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

After that, Sylvain turns back to his previous task. Hums, plucking items off the shelf and leaving them on the kitchen counter, and turns to their pantry next, fishing for salt and spices and rice, and Felix thinks it a welcome sight. Sylvain is surprisingly focused when he cooks.

He sets a deep pan of water over the stove first, cranking the heat up on the furthest burner. Then, turning to the sink, he sets about cleaning the rice, using a sieve to filter out imperfections. The steady rush of water streaming from the tap is calming, smooth. Felix finds himself watching as Sylvain draws a rhythm, flitting between the sink and the stove and the counter in between. It is comforting to watch. Familiar, in a way he can feel without wanting to hurt. 

Sylvain is a good friend. Felix knows he doesn’t have many.

“Are you working tonight?” Felix asks after a while, perching his chin on his hand.

Sylvain, presently chopping vegetables for his stir fry, doesn’t look up from the cutting board. Instead, he nods, humming in acknowledgement. “I’m due to take over the bar at nine, yeah. Why?”

“I was just wondering if I would be subjected to your spectacular failures on stream again. That’s all,” Felix drawls, voice lacking its usual bite. Sylvain chuckles, sliding the vegetables into the prepared pan. His rice still simmers on the other burner.

“I’m sure you enjoy hearing me scream,” he says, innuendo imbued in his tone.

“ _Gross_ ,” Felix groans, burying his face in his hands. Sylvain, ever the conniving devil, laughs, throwing his head back with far too much glee at his own stupid, unfunny joke. That is what it is in Felix’s opinion, anyway.

“Get a sense of humour,” Felix tells him. Sylvain only grins again in return, brown eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Come on, Felix,” he wheedles, “You gotta admit that was at least kind of funny.”

“Maybe for you,” Felix replies, decisively turning away his chin. 

Sylvain shakes his head, using Felix’s cat-shaped spatula to stir the contents of his pan. “You’re impossible to please, you know that?”

Felix frowns at him. “Is that my spatula?”

“So what if it is?”

“Get your own,” Felix states, but makes no move to take it from him. Sylvain considers it a win.

Felix is quiet after that. He stares into space, mostly, letting the absence of the muttered word give way to the faint hiss and sizzle of food on the stove. The quiet gives him time and opportunity to think, and sitting here is oddly soothing. Watching Sylvain doesn’t usually provide him with the calm he feels now, but he supposes it’s all as well. 

Sylvain is alright, sometimes. He’s smart, which is surprising, and Felix values his input when it matters. Although, he’d rather be found dead than say that to Sylvain out loud, because now their relationship is easy. Simple. Felix won’t allow himself to ruin that camaraderie with something as fickle and unimportant as his _feelings_ , damn it. 

This is better. He and Sylvain have always been close, but Felix keeps his own matters of the heart closer to his own chest. He trusts Sylvain, yes, but not enough to taint their bond with the true depth of what he feels. It’s for the best. Felix has many demons. Sylvain deserves better than to see them.

“Here,” Sylvain says some time later, sliding Felix a plate of steaming stir fry across the granite countertop. He has a warm smile plastered on his face.

“Thanks,” Felix replies, gladly accepting the offered meal.

“Sure thing,” Sylvain intones, sliding a fork Felix’s way as well. Felix takes it, and brings a forkful of the stir fry to his mouth. “Well,” Sylvain prompts. “Is it any good?”

Flavour explodes across Felix’s tongue, and it takes all of his willpower to hold in his sound of satisfaction. Trying his utmost to stay nonchalant, “It’s about as good as your usual.”

“Just that? Seriously?” Sylvain asks, incredulous, eyes purposely overblown like saucers. “No, ‘ _Wow, this is so good, Sylvain_ ’, no ‘ _Gosh, I would kill to have you cook for me_ ’? Really?”

Felix glowers, forking another serving into his mouth, but otherwise says nothing. Sylvain is practically pouting, yet Felix continues to pointedly ignore him. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll admit it’s nothing groundbreaking,” Sylvain concedes, defeated. Then, picking up his own plate, he goes to stand by the counter. “Can you do me a favour?”

At last, Felix glances towards him. Says, carefully, “What do you mean, a favour.”

“Nothing big, really!” Sylvain reassures around the vegetables in his mouth. Taking a folded paper out from the pocket of his sweatpants and sliding it across the smooth surface of the island, he continues, “Just this. It’s a list for when you go to the store tomorrow. I’ll pay you back.”

Felix raises a brow, but scans the offered paper anyway. “What’s this for?”

“Friday night,” Sylvain says, going back to his food. “Can’t have our dear guest eating any old meal, now, can we?”

“I’m fairly sure we can,” Felix replies dubiously, looking at Sylvain like he’d grown a third head.

“Well, then, just humour me, Felix,” Sylvain insists, waving his fork in the air. “You’re going to the store anyway.”

Felix folds the paper and slides it into his own pocket. Releases a heavy breath, but complies. “Fine. You owe me one, though.”

“Sure do,” Sylvain agrees, bringing another forkful to his mouth. Felix rolls his eyes, and continues eating.

The quiet is warm between them after that. Ingrid comes home sometime after, and Felix watches carefully as the corners of Sylvain’s lips twitch up, his eyes softening as he greets her. It is a curious thing, to see another in love. 

He tries his hardest not to think of blue, or blood, or war. It is a futile effort.

* * *

Felix remembers the days Dimitri smiled openly, and resents everything about the fact that he does.

It would be easier to live in the present if the past weren’t so tantalizing. If he could go back, before everything went to hell, and change the alignment of the path they followed. If he could let go of his ingrained pride, and beg Dimitri to stay with _him_ , just once. Anything, anything to change that what had happened.

As it is, Felix has always had trouble with matters of the heart. It’s not in his nature, to share with others that which haunts him. All he has is what he wishes he could be, and the memories of a time he desperately wishes to return to. 

At the academy, Dimitri didn’t smile the way Felix remembered. His expression had always seemed superficial, forced, as if he were putting it on for show. Concealing his true self behind a mask, one that Felix could see from miles away, because they grew up together, laughed together, once upon a time. It seemed like Dimitri had forgotten their history, the intimacy of the bond between childhood friends, and it hurt. After all these years, it still does.

Felix glances to his phone late at night in quiet contemplation. Thumbs in his passcode, and opens his contacts. Stares at Dimitri’s number for what seems like an infinite, neverending stretch of time. Contemplates, ruminates. Ultimately, closes his eyes.

It is still a long way till morning.

* * *

He goes to the grocery store the following afternoon.

It’s strange to come here during daytime following his and Dimitri’s unlikely rendezvous. The atmosphere has changed completely, and Felix finds part of himself wishing for that blessed, midnight quiet instead of the persistent chatter of customers and rattling of carts. 

He rifles through his jacket pocket to find the list he compiled with Ingrid earlier that day. They’re out of eggs, which won’t do at all, but thankfully the milk he purchased several nights back hasn’t been spilled. Yet. Felix rounds the end of the shelving unit and into the next aisle.

Sylvain’s list is held behind the first. The contents of it are familiar, originating from a recipe for a meal Felix hasn’t seen made since the distant throes of childhood. It is steeped in remembrance, and nostalgia courses through him as he picks up the requested items, wondering all the while. He cannot fathom why Sylvain decided on this, of all things. 

Perhaps there’s something missing from his understanding that is the key to all of this. Otherwise, Felix thinks he would know why Sylvain was making the classic Gautier lasagna, which he, Felix, Ingrid, and Dimitri feasted on in times of celebration. Although, considering Sylvain’s entirely unhelpful remarks to Felix the previous evening concerning the identity of their dinner guest, Felix probably won’t be able to wheedle the reason out of him anytime soon. 

Ignoring the other patrons of the store, he pushes his cart with purpose to the dairy section. The chill of the freezer is potent, here, and Felix finds himself drawing his jean jacket tighter around his torso at the cold. He picks up a container of ricotta, as requested by Sylvain, and moves on. 

There has to be a simple explanation, Felix decides. Maybe Sylvain was just feeling nostalgic? It doesn’t seem like him, but Felix isn’t one to judge. Not with the weight of his own reverence for a time that had long since passed. 

Not when he sees the Dimitri of their childhood out of the corner of his eye, just far enough out of reach.

Felix goes to get the thick pasta for the layers next. He can’t decide if they’re supposed to be referred to as lasagna or lasagne because the different brands on display label them differently. He scoffs, picking the one that’s least expensive, and decides it doesn’t make a difference as long as they come together to form lasagna in the end.

As he leaves the store he gets the odd realization that lasagna and people are inherently the same. Layered, complicated, and with different concentrations of cheese. 

Belatedly, he also realizes that he’s been spending too much time with Sylvain.

* * *

Sylvain is far too gleeful when Felix returns from his errands, arms laden with enough food to feed them all through the next week.

Thankfully, though, he helps with the groceries, taking the heaviest bags to the kitchen even before Felix has taken off his shoes.

“Oh sweet, you got the ricotta!” Felix hears from the kitchen amidst the faint sound of violently ruffled shopping bags. He hangs his jacket up in the closet by the door and leaves his sneakers on the wooden rack below the hangers, afterwards making his way through the corridor. Then, setting the final two bags down on the floor, he looks around the mess Sylvain’s already made.

“You do know that the groceries have to go in the fridge and not on the counters, right?” Felix says, emptying the bags he brought right onto the kitchen island. Sylvain narrows his eyes at the sight, ready to call his bluff.

“Funny you say that,” he contributes, going back to sorting Felix’s purchases and slowly putting things away. 

Felix scowls, but helps, neatly arranging the inside of their fridge. After all, it absolutely wouldn’t do if he couldn’t locate the milk at any given moment. He’s not Sylvain. _He_ has priorities.

Luckily, in his foraging of the fridge Felix discovers that some of Sylvain’s stir fry from the previous night is still, blessedly, intact. He pulls out the container, stepping around Sylvain to open one of the dark wooden cupboards and pull out a plate. 

Thus far, Sylvain has kept his mouth tightly shut on the identity of their dinner guest, and Ingrid has been at work wherever Felix thought to ask. So, here he is, moving his leftovers from the container to his plate, watching in quiet contemplation as Sylvain sorts the groceries and prepares to lay the groundwork for his lasagna.

“Who’s coming over for dinner, anyway?” He asks, sticking his plate into the microwave. 

“Come on, how many times have I told you?” Sylvain starts, tone bordering on disappointment. “It’s a surprise!”

Felix grunts in return. It was worth a shot. Sylvain continues to sort his ingredients on the counter, disregarding the way Felix scrutinizes him in open annoyance. He even has the audacity to hum under his breath.

Fine. So be it. At least his stir fry doesn’t hide things from him in the deep, dark realm of grilled chicken and vegetables. It’s refreshing. And delicious, but he won’t ever tell Sylvain that.

Felix washes the dishes before going to his room. Ensures that he applies a generous amount of soap to the sponge, and cleans everything methodically before arranging the items in the dishwasher. He catches sight of Sylvain’s grimace somewhere to his left, and smirks.

It’s justice, in its finest form. Felix feels more proud of himself than he probably should.

Sylvain, exasperated, excuses himself after finishing his meal, citing the necessity to leave for his shift at the bar. Felix leaves the kitchen as well, returning a few moments later clad in pyjamas instead of jeans. 

He is alone but for the tea he poured himself. It sits on the counter before him, untouched, as he thinks. 

* * *

Friday comes faster than Felix anticipated. 

Again, he finds himself as the lone occupant of the kitchen, having just woken up from a nap. He has on the same pair of grey pants he fell asleep in and a black sweater, but he glanced in the mirror and decided he looks presentable enough, so he doesn’t bother changing. He’s been tasked by Sylvain to watch the oven as the lasagna finishes cooking. It’s close to done, its status signified by the warm, cheesy scent escaping the shut oven door. Sylvain is in the other room, setting up their dining table.

Ingrid arrives from work just as Sylvain brings out the cups. She looks exhausted.

Felix stares. They stand slightly at odds, their hair in equal states of disarray and their clothes similarly disheveled. Ingrid speaks first.

“Good evening,” she says cordially, as if greeting a coworker and not Felix, who once saw her dump blueberries into an Irish coffee and call it boba. Then, he backtracks, supposing to himself that recalling this incident in particular isn't entirely fair because Ingrid herself has no recollection of it happening. 

“You look like you wrestled with a raccoon. And lost,” he replies, the phrase sounding completely outlandish in the overly formal tone he employs in mimicry. 

A crease appears between Ingrid’s brows. She looks disappointed in him, but, then again, that in and of itself isn’t too far out of the ordinary. “Likewise.”

He gestures to the coffeemaker with an open palm. “Coffee?”

“Not now,” Ingrid declines, and Felix supposes that’s fair. She sighs. “Word of advice. _Never_ speak with Ferdinand von Aegir.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Felix scoffs, glaring at his tea for no good reason. “But, then again, the guy’s so far up his own ass that he probably wouldn’t notice.”

“He’s insufferable, honestly,” she continues, wringing her hands. “Why he wanted to work as a detective is utterly beyond me.”

Felix only nods. “Mhm.”

Sylvain chooses that moment in particular to reappear in the kitchen. His eyes scan each of them in turn, at the state of their hair, and he frowns. “Are you guys really going to greet our guest like that?”

“I just got back from work,” Ingrid explains.

“Leave me alone,” Felix says. “I don’t even know who this ‘guest’ is.”

At this, Ingrid’s brows narrow in confusion. “Sylvain didn’t tell you?”

Felix glances to his nails. Says, decidedly, “No.”

Then, several things happen in quick succession, all of which Felix misses because he’s too busy avoiding eye contact. First: Ingrid opens her mouth to tell Felix the name of the man of the hour. Second: before she is able to do so, Sylvain places a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head. Third: Ingrid closes her mouth.

Fourth: the doorbell rings.

And, finally, fifth: Sylvain walks over to the door. Unlocks it. Greets whoever is on the other side and lets them in. Felix glances over, but the identity of the person is revealed a few seconds before his eyes find them, with a confused utterance. 

“Felix?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! this has been sitting in my drafts for far too long... but now it is here... thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> please note, the mental health tag is there mainly as a warning for dimitri's ptsd, but other mental health issues will be hinted at as well. 
> 
> with that out of the way, i'd like to extend a big thank you to aeron, maj, and lapis for looking this over! you guys were a big help and i really appreciate it. and, to everyone, thank you for reading! this was incredibly fun to write so i sincerely hope you enjoyed!


End file.
